


Heir Apparent

by Anonymous



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Choking, Fucking by Proxy, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4777583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone new shows up at a trash party. Rumlow doesn't like him.</p><p>(Not actually a trashmeme fill. Inspired by the Trashchat headcanon that Pierce was grooming Bakshi to be his successor. Circa 2000, so Bakshi is about 21 - not underage, whatever Rumlow might think.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heir Apparent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ozhawk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozhawk/gifts).



The fun and games are well underway when the new guy walks in. The asset’s been chained to a table, bent over it with his wrists shackled to the far side: nothing fancy, just there for a bit of post-mission stress relief. Or pre-mission stress relief. Or mission-unrelated stress-relief, whatever.

This kid, though — this kid slips in the back door, nods at security like he owns the place. Like any new recruit can just waltz on in and take their turn.

Rumlow doesn’t like him.

“Hey.” He nudges Rollins’ elbow. “Hey. Who’s the new kid?”

Rollins looks across the room to where the kid — barely legal, if even that — signals something to the bartender. He’s got some muscle on him, holds his weight well when he moves, but not quite the way Rumlow’s used to.

“Not one of us,” Rollins echoes Rumlow’s thoughts, then turns pointedly back towards the asset. _Not our concern._

“I wanna know who he is.”

Rollins raises an eyebrow, still watching the show. “Great idea. Why don’t you go ask. Find out if he’s the Red Skull’s grandson, I’m sure that’ll go great for you.”

Rumlow snorts. “That story’s bullshit. Nobody believes Goreface McNazi actually had a daughter.”

Rollins jerks his chin towards the asset. “You wanna find out what it’s like in his place?” Rumlow snorts again, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. Goddamn urban myth, is what it is. But fine, he’ll leave the kid alone.

-

A beer and a half later Rollins steps up. He grabs a thin metal chain from the sidebar, thumbing open his fly as he crosses the room. By the time he slips a loop of choke collar over the asset’s head he’s got his cock out in his other hand, fully hard, and Rumlow settles more comfortably into his seat.

Rollins takes his time with it: long, deep thrusts that make the muscles stand out all the way down his thighs, even through his jeans. One hand on the choke chain, the other on the asset’s cock, he fucks and strokes until the asset’s rocking with him, hips jerking back and forth between Rollins’ cock and hand. The asset starts to squirm, whimpering with every thrust, and Rumlow grins.

Right on cue Rollins yanks the chain tight. The asset chokes and splutters, arching back to try to move with the tension. Rollins is grinning now too, fucking the asset through it as he strains for air: head arched back, face flushing with blood, neck straining. Only when the asset is completely soft again does Rollins loosen the chain.

The asset gets in maybe one good gulp of air before Rollins starts again.

By the fourth round Rumlow’s left their table to get a better view, leaning on the end of the sidebar where he can fully appreciate the expressions the asset makes, the way his body jerks with every thrust of Rollins’ hips. Rollins catches Rumlow’s eyes and grins — then snaps his hips into the asset and comes, the asset squirming and whimpering on his cock.

Rumlow barely gives Rollins time to pull out before he’s shoving his own cock up the asset’s ass, ignoring the chain to grab a handful of hair. The asset’s tight the way he only gets when he’s really losing it, and Rumlow groans as he thrusts in. It’s fucking bliss. The asset’s so cock-hungry that he does most of the work; Rumlow just holds onto his hair and enjoys the ride.

“You wanna come, you come like this,” Rumlow grits out, balls-deep in heaven. “I’m not touching your fucking cock.” The asset moans and rolls his hips, clenching and changing the angle and fuck, yeah. That’s it. That’s fucking —

Rumlow groans as he comes, grabbing the asset’s hips with both hands to keep him from squirming away. _Fuck_ yeah, that’s good.

He looks up, glances around the room to get his bearings — and somehow catches the eye of the kid at the bar. He’s holding a glass of scotch or something up near his mouth, but not high enough to hide the way he’s smirking down his nose.

“What, you want something, pretty boy? Wanna take a turn?” A hush falls over the room as Rumlow steps back, cock slick between his legs. Let the kid get a good look at what Rumlow’s packing.

A hand falls on Rumlow’s shoulder, grips tight. He can practically feel Rollins breathing down his neck but seriously, fuck that smarmy little bitch who thinks he can just watch like he’s above the rest of them.

“Come on, you got a problem? Not _up_ for it?” Rumlow sneers — and manages not to flinch when Rollins’ grip turns painful.

The kid lowers his glass, looks Rumlow up and down. For a few long seconds they lock eyes across the deathly silent room.

“No thank you.” The kid says it with a curl of his lip that makes Rumlow rock forward onto the balls of his feet, but Rollins yanks him sideways before he can make a move. Rumlow throws a glare over his shoulder as Rollins half-drags him back to their table.

“You stupid sonofabitch,” Rollins bites out. “You _stupid_ goddamn —“

There’s a collective intake of breath, and Rollins’ grip on Rumlow’s shoulder loosens enough for him to turn around. The whole room’s attention is on the back door, which is just swinging shut behind —

Alexander Pierce.

Rumlow swallows, tucking himself in and doing up his fly.

Pierce looks around the room with a smile, raises his eyebrows. “Please, ladies, gentlemen. Don’t let me interrupt.”

There’s an awkward moment where everyone in the room pretends to be busy with something else. Eventually Pierce’s gaze falls on a guy a few tables over, who carefully gets to his feet.

“There, that’s what I like to see. People taking full advantage of the privileges HYDRA has to offer.”

Rumlow falls in beside Rollins as they head back to their table. This time Rumlow keeps his attention firmly on the show, even if he’s looking more through it than at it, until Rollins hisses a quiet _shit_ beside him.

Rumlow looks up — and there’s Pierce at the bar, sidling up to the underage prettyboy. Rumlow smirks. So the cocky little shit is Pierce’s latest chew toy? Serves him right.

Rumlow leans in to make a joke about cradle-snatching — then stops. Rollins’ jaw is tight, fists clenched where they’re resting on his thighs. Rumlow frowns, looks back across the room.

The body language is all wrong.

The kid, whoever he is, is lounging with his elbows on the bar, mimicking Pierce. As Rumlow watches he tilts his head to whisper something in Pierce’s ear, and Pierce laughs out loud. The kid raises his glass for a sip, eyes flicking across the room to Rumlow and Rollins, and something cold settles in Rumlow’s gut.

Rumlow forces himself to look back at the show, even though he can still feel the kid’s eyes on him. Whatever. Rumlow is STRIKE. He’s valuable. The kid can’t do shit to him, no matter who his sugar daddy is.

Probably.

Rumlow holds onto his beer, watching some loser who looks so spooked about touching the asset it’s a wonder he’s still hard. It’s fine. The worst Rumlow’ll get for this is an ass-kicking from Rollins, if the set of Rollins’ jaw is anything to go by.

He’s just about convinced himself of that fact when movement at the bar catches his eye — and the kid steps forward.

“I’ll have him upright, please.”

Pierce raises an eyebrow and the night’s handlers spring to their feet, unbuckling the asset from the table and reattaching his cuffs to the chains hanging from the ceiling.

The kid strolls over to the sidebar, skips the gaudy neon toys and heads straight for the leather and steel. He brushes his fingers over some of the weirder shit, and Rumlow refuses to strain his neck to get a better view. When the kid finally steps away from the table he’s holding a whip: a coiled, well-worn singletail. No tassels at the end, just a long stretch of leather that the kid runs through his hands, stroking the braided handle almost sensually.

Rumlow shifts in his seat, ignoring the sideways look Rollins shoots him.

The asset’s dangling from the ceiling cuffs now, even his metal arm hanging limp. His bare back is damp with sweat, but hasn’t been marked yet tonight. The kid swings the whip through the air a couple of times, like it’s a fucking jump rope, and Rumlow snorts. They’ll be lucky if he doesn’t take someone’s eye out.

A sudden _crack_ makes the asset jerk and that’s — Rumlow hadn’t even seen the kid move. Or rather, hadn’t seen the change in his movement. He’s still swinging the whip in long, lazy swoops. Rumlow sits up a little straighter, leans in to watch and — there. The flick of the kid’s wrist is so subtle Rumlow only just catches it: a snap of acceleration that turns a sweeping arc into another sharp _crack_ , laying a two-inch vertical stripe on the asset’s shoulderblade, just to the right of the first one.

Rumlow licks his lips.

The kid picks up his pace after that, whip circling faster, cracks coming closer together as he lays at least a dozen short red welts over the asset’s back, in two neat rows. They’re not all quite straight, but it’s impressive work.

Not that Rumlow doesn’t still want to punch the smug smile off the asshole’s face, as he lets the whip come to a rest and saunters back to the bar. There’s a soft murmur around the room but nobody seems in a rush to get up and take the next turn. Not when the kid’s still holding the whip.

Pierce has a glass of scotch waiting for him. The kid takes a sip, then says something inaudible to Pierce, whose grin widens far enough to show teeth. Then the kid strolls back over to the asset.

That self-satisfied smirk never wavers as he upends the rest of the scotch over the raw welts on the asset’s back.

The asset hisses, jerking against the chairs. Rumlow glances over at Rollins. Alcohol is a bitch of an antiseptic.

The asset’s still panting hard when the kid starts swinging the whip again, and his shoulders tense visibly at the sound of it swishing through the air. Rumlow grins despite himself.

This time the kid wastes no energy on theatrics. The blows come quick and fast, falling haphazardly across the welts he left before. His expression is vicious now, lips pulling back over his teeth with each stroke. After another dozen or so sharp little marks he circles the whip once before reeling back to really bring his arm into it.

The snap of leather on skin is almost louder than the asset’s yelps of pain as the kid brings the whip down once, twice, laying two deep horizontal welts across his back.

The asset’s shaking now, still braced for more, but again the kid lets the whip slow. This time he passes it off to one of the handlers as he makes his way back over to Pierce, who has the scotch bottle waiting.

That last strike was deep enough to draw blood. Rumlow watches it bead and start to drip down the asset’s spine, and swallows. It’s several seconds before Rollins’ nudge makes him look back up at the whole picture.

The second set of marks overlays with the first to spell out — crude, but unmistakable — the words HAIL HYDRA. Each word underlined with a deep, thick welt that’s already bruising at the edges.

Rumlow swallows again, staring. He barely even notices the kid and Pierce stepping back out the door, taking their drinks with them.

Rollins puts a hand on his thigh under the table.

“Home.”

The low growl goes straight to Rumlow’s cock. Apparently his body doesn’t give a damn that he came balls-deep in the asset not fifteen minutes ago. Rollins squeezes his thigh and Rumlow shudders. Maybe they could borrow the —

“Now.” Rollins stands up and is halfway to the door before Rumlow manages to scramble out of his seat.

Home. Now. Yeah, okay.


End file.
